


We Might Not Make It Home

by Ballykissangel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Big Brother Mycroft, Captain John Watson, Death, Defensively Heterosexual John Watson, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Heavy Angst, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, I Believe in Sherlock Holmes, John Watson's War, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft To The Rescue, Mycroft Worries, POV John Watson, POV Lestrade, POV Mycroft Holmes, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pain, Post Reichenbach, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Feels, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock Whump, Tears, Wishes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:04:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ballykissangel/pseuds/Ballykissangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to When Evening Falls So Hard. A few months later after Sherlocks return, they are on a case that has gone horribly wrong. They find themselves gravely wounded and locked in a cellar. Holding onto to each other and trying their best to stay alive, Sherlock can't bring himself to say another goodbye  to his dying friend and John can't find the will to live anymore and just wants to stop hurting.</p><p>Heavy angst. No slash, just epic friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Death Of Yesterday

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is only my second Sherlock fan fic. I really hope you enjoy it and all reviews, tips and suggestions are greatly appreciated.
> 
> I would love to hear your thoughts =)
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, I'm just visiting around with them.

It started out as a simple plan: to take a small case that Mycroft had offered them that involved a gang of counterfeiters that were believed to be hiding out in a part of the county near Sussex.

In total, it would only take a few hours for the case to be finished, closed, and all it would take would be finding the house, and within said house, the papers that Mycroft was particularly interested in.

And Sherlock, trying to take away John's unsure questions about the simplicity of the plan told him that the case "would be finished in no time and that they would be back in London by evening."

And as the ever loyal friend that he was, John went with him. Even though Sherlock could tell he still was hesitant about the case; for Johns worries were that this would be one of their first cases since Sherlock's return, that neither of them were really to the point of handling a case as of yet and it was too soon for them. But Sherlock, being Sherlock, his rather bored mind wanting to be taken out for a walk, snatched up the opportunity. Thinking also that if they took the case it might help them to ease back into the way they used to be... before Moriarty.

They knew that something had changed, that they had changed.

Since Sherlock's return it seemed like their lives and their friendship was a puzzle that had been broken and scattered in a million pieces. They had tried to find those pieces, to began again where they had left off, and to continue the life that had been shattered before them.

But, it seemed like something was missing, which was something their  _friendship_  once had but was now no longer there, and it left them at a loss for words, which was something they had  _never_  had trouble with before. The piece that they both desperately needed, the conduit of the bond that they shared had been lost. They both knew it, but because of the missing piece, neither of them could find a way to tell the other.

They were also mentally and emotionally exhausted, as if they still carried that invisible burden that Moriarty had left imprinted on them, and being unable to find the way they once knew so well, unable to reach out to each other, they were helpless to remove the burden from each other's backs.

So they just continued on. Pretending that they were fine. Staying close to one another and trying to push aside the feeling that even though they could see that the other was alive and well, a part of them felt dead, as if they still hadn't found each other really after all.

That is one of the reasons why the case had been so eagerly accepted by one and so reluctantly accepted by the other.

It's always amazing how something so seemingly _simple_  can go downhill so quickly and turn into something so positively  _dreadful_. Sherlock didn't see it coming until it was too late and the simple plan had turned into a horrible plan in a blink of an eye.

* * *

" _Do you want to know the secret of bringing something mighty down to its knees?"_

Sherlock could still hear those words swirling around in his mind along with the hot flashes of pain running over his chest, through his arm and cracked ribs, the cold from the stone cellar floor seeping into his body.

He was lying there trying to clear his mind of the fog of unconsciousness and pain that was trying to drag him down again; John was lying beside him, covered in red and Sherlock remembered those echoing words of the man who had sliced his friend with the knife.

" _You strike its heart. You find the source that makes him what he is, what empowers him."_

He saw the knife just before it went into John's side.

Again and again it flashed, and then it stopped only when John did.

He remembered trying to fight the men, trying to get to John, to the knife that wouldn't stop hurting his best friend; struggling against the handcuffs that held him to his own chair placed across from John.

The pain was terrible; the only thing he could see was John sitting across from him there in his chair they had handcuffed him to, his head hanging down on his chest, not moving.

He tried shouting John's name but no words would come; he stopped fighting. The man who held the knife bent down in front of him and whispered in his ear, running his knife deeply across Sherlock's arm and then his chest – over his heart in a long line – as he did so. Sherlock gasped as the new sensation of running blood and pain started to overcome him, the man's harsh whisper filling his ears.

" _Without a heart he is nothing, just an empty lifeless shell. No more light, no more life_. A  _dead man casting shadows."_

The last thing he remembered was looking over at John's still body and the man drawing back the butt of his gun and bringing it down upon him. He welcomed the peaceful blackness. The last thought in his head was that at least John would not have to wait for him very long.

He could say it was one of the worst disappointments of his life when the pain of his screaming head and beaten body brought him out of the shadows and into consciousness again.

He dragged himself over to where John lay – just a few feet away from him – dread filling his heart that his friend had left him. He was rewarded with a faint pulse beating under his fingertips. He gasped a sigh of relief and started to assess his friend's injuries, talking to him as he did so.

Sherlock was never one to be scared or squeamish of blood, heaven only knew he had seen himself get into enough injuries and John had always been there to take care of him.

The horrible mind gripping feeling of cold fear he had always hated had him now, not because of his blood, even though his mind was screaming at him that he had lost _too much_  and it was still slowly seeping from the cuts on his chest and arm.

It was the blood from John that terrified him the most. John should never bleed; he had known the color red far too much in his life before Sherlock and it should never touch him again.

He half fell, half knelt beside his friend, trying to stop the bleeding as best he could with what he could find in what looked like a small cellar of the farmhouse that they had been locked in. He could only find his blue scarf, the one that John had given him for Christmas, the last Christmas before Sherlock 'died'. He tried to shake the fog out of his mind, trying to keep the emotions and nag of panic that he was so unfamiliar with back where they should be.

"Come on John, wake up! I need you to open your eyes."

He didn't think he had ever wanted anything as badly as he wanted to see those blue eyes look back at him in that moment.

He shut his own eyes, fighting against the wave of weakness and panic that was starting to wash over him. When he opened them, he found John's eyes half open and searching for him.

Finding his friend at least half alive gave Sherlock new strength and hope that maybe they could indeed make it out.

"We are going to be alright, John," he panted, trying to ignore his own screaming wounds as he slowly drew the smaller man in closer to him. He wiped away the sweat from his friend's forehead and pressed the scarf into his side. "We are going to get out of here.

"Mycroft knows where we are. I texted him this morning that we were coming over to check over that lead on the case he sent us on. He should suspect that something's wrong by now; I was supposed to call him with any information I had on the case at 8 o'clock and by the time on your watch, it's well past ten.

"We shall be back at the flat, enjoying a cup of tea and watching crap television in no time at all."

John was struggling to keep his eyes open as he leaned against Sherlock's shoulder, trying to stay awake, trying to focus on his friends words. It was hard to breathe. He could feel rattling in his lungs. More than a bit not good.

It was so cold and the pain was crushing him.

Red was everywhere; he could feel his blood pouring from his side, and he could feel himself slipping. He tried to fight it. He tried to fight towards the hands that were holding him, focus on that familiar voice. The voice he was expecting never to hear again.

"I don't think I am, Sherlock." His tone was so weak, so unlike the strong and confident one Sherlock was so familiar with hearing.

"Lost too much blood…internal damage as well, I think." He said, gasping with the effort, his eyes closing again against the pain.

"No, John," Sherlock replied sharply. "You have to stay awake, stay awake with me. I promise we are going to make it. I won't leave you behind...not again."

He couldn't let John end like this; not like this, not his faithful friend who had done so much for him over the few short years they had known each other. The friend who _always_  believed in him, who would do  _anything_  for him. He would  _not_  lose him again, not after fighting  _so_  hard to return to him after the events with Moriarty.

It had only been a couple of months since Sherlock's return from the dead.

Sherlock had always suspected that he would end in a way like this. He wasn't surprised, really. He knew it would come one day. He saw it coming on the roof, but he had managed to escape that time. He knew it would always be waiting to happen again. He might be on the side of the angels, but he would not have the death of one.

John didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to die like this.

It was his fault that John was here. He should have seen it coming.

"I'm so sorry, John."

Blue eyes met his again, searching his face with a sad look, as if he could tell something was coming and he didn't want to disappoint Sherlock.

He eyes traveled over Sherlock's body, catching sight of his injuries.

"You're hurt," he said, trying to put all the fake strength that he could muster into his voice and, reaching out a hand, clasping it around Sherlock's arm trying to slow the blood that was continuing to flow.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said trying to push back the most inconveniently timed desire to weep over his friend who was trying to help him even as he half lay on the floor, hardly conscious himself, ever the faithful Friend and Doctor.

"Don't worry about me. We are going home soon, just you wait and see, they  _will_  be here."

John nodded slowly, his hand still on Sherlock's arm, his breathing getting slower.

"Where are we?" John asked, trying to raise his head and looking around the small, empty and dimly lit room they were in. The only source of light being a lone light fixture hanging high above them; the dim bulb flickering softly.

"A cellar it looks like." Sherlock replied, "They put us here thinking we were dead or that we soon would be. They've already cleared out and gone by now, thinking no one would find any evidence of them being here until they were miles away.

"Do you think if I propped you up against the wall you will be alright for a moment while I check the door and see if there is a way out?" Sherlock asked, moving John's hand to his side and letting him take over the task of staunching the blood pouring beneath the torn jumper. John nodded, sweat beading his pale face.

Sherlock pulled himself onto his feet, white-hot pain flashing through him, blurring his vision for a moment and making him horribly dizzy. He clutched the wall, and steadied himself. One hand using the wall for balance and the other hand on his chest; he could feel the blood running down his arm as he slowly made his way to the rusted metal door. Sherlock tried it. It was bolted tightly from the outside.  _No way out._

They had taken his small lock pick case when they had taken his coat and the room was bare, offering him nothing to improvise as tools to help their cause. He rested his flushed forehead on the cool metal door, closing his eyes, fighting against the nausea in his stomach and the irritating feeling of dread that was growing in his chest.

"It's alright, Sherlock," John called weakly over to him from his spot on the floor, having observed his friend's actions and the defeated slump of his head and shoulders. "It's no use wasting whatever strength you have left on that door."

Sherlock dragged himself back to John's corner, sliding down the wall, one hand across his injured chest as he did so – the jarring movement of hitting the floor sending a searing stab of pain through his entire being.

John couldn't keep his head up anymore; he was starting to slump badly. Sherlock shifted his friend into his arms, ignoring the pain and gritting his teeth against the painful wounds in his chest and arm and the other injuries he didn't even want to go over.

He positioned John so that he was lying in his lap, his head on Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock's arms wrapped around his upper body, his hands pressing against the wound on John's side. It wouldn't stop bleeding; the scarf was almost soaked through now.

_"Without a heart he is nothing, just an empty lifeless shell. No more light, no more life. A dead man casting shadows."_

Those dreadful, cold words echoed in Sherlock's head again, refusing to be stilled. He was pulled from his thoughts as he realized John was speaking to him.

 _"_ I'm sorry, Sherlock." John was staring up at him with a look Sherlock had never seen before, yet something was familiar about it all the same _. It was the look he himself must have worn on the roof of St Bart's whilst talking to John, right before he had jumped._

The thought flashed across Sherlock's mind, sending a chill down him that had nothing to do with the coldness of the room. "You have nothing to be sorry for. It's my fault we're here." Sherlock replied, trying to ignore the feeling that their situation was not what John was apologizing for.

"Will you tell Mrs. Hudson and Harry for me, tell them I…" John's voice trailed off, his eyes closing again.

The horrible realization that Sherlock had tried to ignore struck him full force now. He buried his face in his friend's blonde hair, which was now streaked with bits of red.

"Please, John. You can't make me go home without you." This time, he didn't even try to push the fear out of his voice, holding onto his friend, suddenly terrified he would slip away before he could tell him what he desperately wanted to. Things that had built in him all those months ago.

"You can't make me go back home alone, go back and face Mrs. Hudson, to tell her you didn't make it home, that you aren't coming back. I can't do it John; I'm not like you." The sentiment he had always despised and John always had such a heart for overcame him and he found that he didn't care.

His voice was now starting to shake around the edges. "I…I can't do what you did after what happened at Bart's. You are stronger than I will ever be, I always wondered how you did it... And I know now that I will never be able to do it. I can't bear the thought of having to face that, and I'm sorry for ever making you have to.

"I don't want to be by myself again. I never want  _you_ to be by yourself again. There is so much we haven't done yet, too many sunsets we haven't seen. Too many things that I owe you, all the time that was taken from you."

The tears were threatening to come worse than ever now, blurring his vision and the image of his friend, lying there in his lap, his life's blood running like rivers of crimson from the knife wound in his side.

The color red was everywhere. Oh, how he hated that color, red.

A tear slid down John's cheek as he lifted his eyes to meet Sherlock's.

"I'm so tired…Sherlock…So tired, I'm sorry, I don't think I can do it. I don't...I don't have any more strength; I can feel myself fading. I can't save and help myself again, not this time."

Sherlock shook his head as he implored to his friend, his voice full of un-shed tears.

"No John, you  _can_. You can do it – you have to – you have to keep breathing. Please, John, I changed my mind. I promise that breathing is not boring, you have to keep breathing; let me help you, I'm here with you. You're not alone anymore, focus on me. Keep your eyes fixed on me John. In…and out, in…and out…."

_TBC..._


	2. Tomorrow Won't Be Born

Sherlock sat there against the back of the cellar wall holding John in his arms, his left hand pressed against John's right side, trying to hold back the tide of blood that he couldn't afford to lose with his rolled up scarf.

John's head rested against Sherlock's shoulder, his right hand clutching Sherlock's left arm, still trying to staunch the flow of his friend's bleeding. The Doctor part of him still trying to continue although he was rapidly fading.

He fixed his eyes on onto Sherlock's, trying to follow his friends breathing and trying to get his own lungs to work. Those grey eyes that had saved his life on many other occasions were now so unwilling to let go of those blue ones. Holding onto each other as a person would hold onto another who was drowning.

"Too many things we haven't done yet," Sherlock heard John whisper weakly.

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

"Tell me." John whispered again, struggling to focus on Sherlock and keep his breathing going. They knew that he had asked this question for Sherlock's sake and not just his own; John could tell Sherlock was struggling with his own injuries and fighting to stay conscious as well.

"What would we do? What would it be like?"

Inhale…exhale.

Looking up and shifting his thin frame slightly on the cold hard floor, Sherlock began to think.

"You didn't get a chance to teach me about the solar system yet," he said, smiling slightly, John gave a faint laugh, grimacing afterwards.

"True."

"We were planning on going to Mycroft's party next week, remember? We have to go so we can stand in the corner and laugh at asinine people and make him watch us eat that lovely cake that he knows he can't have."

John smiled again, "Oh dear, that's right. Who else would rub Mycroft's face in his diet and make him turn that lovely shade of pink among his peers?"

Sherlock smiled, imagining his brother last time that they had upset him at his last dinner party,  _Mycroft, where are you?_  he thought desperately.

He was glad to hear John's usual joking banter again although he knew that he was doing it just for Sherlock.  _He's still trying to protect me, and this time he's protecting me from himself and what he knows is coming._

His thoughts were interrupted by John coughing. Disrupted by John's movement, a flash of pain from his ribs swept over him, making him dizzy for a moment. He fought against it, gritting his teeth and focusing on the ceiling.

"I'm sorry," John whispered "I'm hurting you, you can put me down on the floor; it's alright," he said, shutting his eyes again.

"No," Sherlock replied. "The floor is too cold, I'm alright."

"Liar," John shot back weakly. "You are just as bad off as I am."

Trying to change the subject away from their situations Sherlock started again on the list.

"Oh, you haven't introduced me to your newest girlfriend yet. What's her name?"

"Mary," John replied, smiling as if he could see her in his mind's eye.

"She must really be something if she has you smiling like that," Sherlock tried to tease his friend, relieved he had brought up a subject that made John truly happy.

"She's the one," his friend whispered, smiling slightly as he did so.

Sherlock thought a moment before replying: "I haven't this slightest idea what that means, but something tells me that you do and I'm sure I'll get to meet her sometime."

"I always hoped so." John sighed.

Sherlock started to think again, trying to think of a place where they were safe and happy; where John wouldn't hurt, where empty shadows couldn't reach them and where the ghosts in Sherlock's mind had no power to haunt him.

"You always loved to look at the stars with that telescope of yours, you always complained about how you couldn't see the moon very clearly from the flat because of all the London buildings.

"We could take your telescope and go to Mike Stamford's country house that he lends out to his friends sometimes. Stake out on one of those grassy hills and you can set up and look up at the moon and stars for as long as you want."

John smiled weakly. "That sounds nice, but what would you do with yourself out on a boring hill just having stars to look at?"

Sherlock grinned back at his friend. "Why, I'd look at the stars of course, and listen to you go on about things and maybe after about ten minutes or so I'd go and investigate what species of bugs live on that hill."

"I can just see you crawling around the grass with an LED torch and magnifying glass." John laughed softly, the image of his friend in that undignified state erasing the presence of pain for a moment.

The moment was brief, however, and the pain flooded over him again, covering the images of the happy dreams that Sherlock had described to him, washing them away like writing in the sand and leaving only the signs of the encroaching inevitable. W _hat a way to say goodbye,_  John thought, fresh tears forming as he watched Sherlock's face and the battle of emotions and logic,  _what a day to die trying._

"Why is it so black in here?" Turning his head, John's eyes searched for the high window that was a part of the cellar that served as their prison "I can't see the sun anymore. I can't feel it. I can't feel anything Sher….Sherlock," he stammered, whether from the cold or from shock, Sherlock wasn't sure, probably both.

Just then Sherlock noticed the light had dimmed to almost nothing, leaving the room shrouded in cold blackness, like it also could not find the strength to survive.

"You can't stop, either" Sherlock, angrily said aloud to the weakening bulb, ignoring how silly he must have sounded scolding a light bulb.

But at that instant, as if it had heard him, the light flickered into its regular soft light again. Flickering and sending soft shadows dancing around the small room. The warm light fell on John, and Sherlock could almost see the life draining out of him and could  _feel_  him fading.

"This is all the light we have, I'm afraid. Hopefully it will stay with us and not leave us in total darkness …it's near midnight." Sherlock said, trying to hide his slightly wavering voice although he was attempting to keep it still. John turned his eyes on him again. He was shaking now, his breathing getting more slow and shallow.

"In and out, in and out," Sherlock whispered, his voice trying to remain steady and failing miserably. He inhaled and exhaled and John took a feeble breath, doing the same, his body softly shuddering as he did so, a few tiny red bubbles starting to form at the corners of his mouth as he coughed.

There they breathed in unison over and over, eyes locked onto each other in a death grip, hard grey turned shadowy by suppressed tears and dark blue turned cloudy by the presence of death. The Doctor and the Detective, the two best friends holding onto each other and breathing in tandem, one coaching the other and one struggling to obey even though his mind and body were begging to be released into the tempting warmth of the shadow that was just in his line of vision.

Sherlock could feel and see John slipping. He could feel _himself_  fading as well. What a terrible feeling it was. He started talking, trying to get his friend's attention and keep his mind off his own condition. He had to stay awake, he had to keep his mind clear and stay breathing for John.

He pulled the smaller man closer, trying to ignore the rush of dizziness and pain the washed over him again with the movement, trying to give John as much warmth as he could. But he had nothing more than his own body heat to offer him; their coats had been taken by the members of the gang, and the only warm thing John had was one of his blue jumpers.

"They will find us John. Mycroft _knows_  where we are, and we just have to hold on until then."

Sherlock had only heard John beg for something once in all the time he had known him. He had heard John beg in the cemetery, with tears slipping down his face, begging Sherlock to stop this, to just not be dead.

Now, to his horror, he was hearing  _his_  John beg that Sherlock let _him_  die. To stop holding onto him, to just give him up.

Inhale. Exhale

"Let me go, Sherlock,"

"I  _won't._ "

Inhale. Exhale.

"I'm so tired."

"You'll be fine."

Inhale. Exhale.

"I can't hold on anymore, Sherlock."

"Hold onto me."

Inhale. Exhale.

"Please, Sherlock; I can't do it anymore, it's too strong, there's nothing left of me. I...I can't fight anymore. I'm all used up. I have fought harder to survive this last year than I ever did in Afghanistan. I can't...can't do  _it_  any more…I don't have it in me. I'm not as  _strong_  as you think, not like I  _used_  to be before you left."

Guilt gripped Sherlock. He knew full well that the deceit of making John think he was dead for all that those months had left his friend broken and just going through the motions of living:  _A dead man casting shadows._

Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to shake away the image of when he saw John the first time since The Fall. That person had resembled his friend but all the life and light had drained away from him. Those empty blue eyes had haunted Sherlock in his sleep for many nights after that.

Sherlock had done that to him. He was the reason that John didn't have any strength left to fight now. John had healed when Sherlock had come back. The life returned to him, but there were some scars in John's mind that were still fresh, that had not even begun to heal yet.

"You are the strongest man I know, if there was anyone that deserves to live, it's you." The words came from Sherlock in choked whisper.

_This must have been what John felt like when he was looking up at me on the roof; begging me not to jump and not being able to stop me, no matter how much he pleaded._

Inhale. Exhale.

"You don't have to fight them for me; I don't mind." John's voice was soft, his face turned into Sherlock's shirt.

"What?" Sherlock replied, jolted out of his thoughts, checking John's wound in his side. Still bleeding.

"The tears," Sherlock froze, his jaw clenching as John began again. "You think they're a weakness. I don't see them that way. They are not tears of shame; I know your tears. They are a thank you, they are your way of saying " _I'm sorry, forgive me_." They pay respect to the people who you respect."

"Sometimes tears are the only thing you have and the only way you can say the things that are hidden away. Please, Sherlock, when I go, don't fight them, even if no one else understands, I'll  _understand_  them."

Sherlock looked away, shutting his eyes and fighting back the tears that he now had permission to shed. He couldn't do it though, he wouldn't allow them to come; if they did it would mean it was over. An admittance of no hope.

"You know, you are the boniest pillow I have ever felt before," John quipped softly, trying to release his friend from his desperate thoughts. Trying to keep him afloat, even though it was getting harder by the minute. He knew that Sherlock was also suffering from his injuries, but allowing him sink into the shadow of his mind would make any chance of survival harder for his friend.

 _Especially, since he will have to do it alone._ The thought swept through John, leaving him breathless. Inhale. Exhale.  _I can't let him sink, not for as long as I can. He has to live. I'm so glad I got to see him again before I died._

A sad smile formed on his John's pale face, then it disappeared as a small gasp escaped him. His body stiffened and he gripped Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock desperately tried to think of a way he could make his friend hold on a little longer. He thought about John's loyalty: the only way he would ever stay, and the only thing that could keep him fighting, was if it were a way to save Sherlock's life as well. Sherlock realized with a horrible feeling that it was actually true. Because he knew that if John died here, in his arms in that cellar, he wouldn't be able to make out either.

_"You strike its heart. You find the source that makes him what he is, what empowers him."_

' _It's true,'_  Sherlock thought to himself, slowly leaning against the wall and letting it support him. He was discovering he couldn't keep himself upright by himself anymore.

_I never realized it until Moriarty came what it meant to have the heart burned out of you. I don't know what's worse, having your heart burned out of you, or finding it again, only to have it die in your arms and being powerless to do anything about it. It's like being on that roof all over again._

John's quiet voice interrupted his thoughts, banishing the memories and bringing Sherlock back to his collapsing reality.

"Would you sing for me?" John whispered. "One _last_  time, just like you did at..at... the last New Years, remember, Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, remembering that last happy New Years that they had spent together. John had asked him to sing "Auld Lang Syne" and Sherlock had, just for him.

"I'll try." Sherlock replied shakily, willing to do  _anything_  to keep his friend with him a little while longer. He was also relieved that John had asked him for something, other than  _begging_  to be released into the arms of the waiting shadow that Sherlock could  _also_  now see and feel.

This one wish Sherlock would grant him.  _Could_  grant him.

He tried to think of a song, but the only one coming up in his crumbling mind palace was one that he had heard playing on the radio of the cab he had ridden in as he was leaving his funeral, so many months ago. He couldn't remember the name of the song. He must have deleted it. It had something to do with the word "Run" or something like that, and it was by some band called "Snow Patrol"

He only knew, as the cab drove through the rain, taking him away from London, that the melody and words had clung to him, settling in his mind and haunting him like a sad ghost that did not want to be forgotten.

Sherlock began to realize his body was beginning to tremble, his transport was slowly shutting down. Like John.

Sherlock bent his head down closer to John's. Wiping away the tears on Johns cheek with a blood stained hand, his deep timbre began to softly fill the air, the tears threatening to still his voice and making it wobble slightly.

He closed his eyes against the tears that were begging to be released. His voice trailing off into a low, choked whisper. He gathered his control, willing his burning eyes to open. He began again.

John's shadowed blue eyes fixed onto Sherlock's fading grey eyes, clinging to his friend's voice.

John's breathing was growing weaker, tears sliding down his bloodied face, making Sherlock's voice crack and start fading. Emotion threatening to break him, to steal the song away.

Sherlock shut his eyes again and he felt himself start to break down. He took a deep breath and  _willed_  his voice to be controlled. For John's sake.

He had not seen John's eyes close. The words died on Sherlock's lips as he realized that John had stopped moving.

_TBC..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The song that Sherlock sings is "Run" by Snow Patrol. I would really recommend that you listen to it. You will cry your eyes out.


	3. I Shall Weep For You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for all the reviews and follows, I love them and your tears feed my muse.

Fear gripped Sherlock, its icy fingers digging into his heart. The horrible admittance of failure and defeat filled his mind as he pulled his friend tighter in his long, thin arms, and lowered his forehead down to John's, letting his black curls mix into John's blonde strands.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock let the whispered confession come."Don't you dare stop, John. Not now. Please, if you stop now, I'll follow and we have to stay awake to help each other stay alive. I'll follow you into the dark, John, and I know you would never want that. I'm selfish John, you know I am. If you won't stay then I won't either. And I know you would give anything for that not to happen. The only way I have a chance of surviving is if you survive as well. So there, it's simple logic; don't you see?"

The last few lines of the song floated through Sherlock's mind and a sob escaped him as the tears could not be repressed any longer, as if John's earlier words had been a key that had opened the doors.

Not giving up, just giving in. Sherlock let his grief over take him and sobs shook him as he sat, holding John's still body in his arms, there in the cold corner of the room that would be their tomb.

The flickering light bulb had died, leaving Sherlock behind also. The only light being the moon casting its light in their corner, covering them like a soft silver blanket. Keeping vigil over the present weeping for the past.

Some of his tears fell on his friend's pale cheek, mixing with John's.

Inhale. Exhale.

John's eyes fluttered open: "Your logic sounds more like blackmail."

Sherlock raised his head at those beautiful words, the relief that his friend hadn't left him slowly releasing the icy fingers of despair that had gripped him moments before.

"I suppose it does, and I'm sorry for it because I can't think of any other way that we are both going to walk out of here," Sherlock admitted as he attempted to control his flood of tears, and tried to settle John more comfortably on his lap, neither of them flinched as badly with the movement this time, it seemed like their bodies were slowly giving into the pain and not fighting as much.

Inhale. Exhale.

 _Stupid transport_ , Sherlock gritted through his teeth.

John's voice distracted his mental transport cursing.

"Thank you, Sherlock," John whispered, taking in his friend's tear streaked face. "I'm honored to have you cry for me."

"It's nothing you haven't done for me many times after my jump off that roof, I owe you some tears." Sherlock dashed his hand across his eyes as he tried to speak around the emotions that threatened to choke him "They... they have been a long time coming." He added after a slight pause.

Inhale. Exhale.

"I hope Mrs. Hudson will be alright alone again, maybe Mycroft will visit her sometimes." John whispered, weakly moving his hand from Sherlock's arm over to his chest, placing it on the knife wound over his heart and trying to hold back the slow flow of red. He could feel Sherlock's heart slowing down.

"When I get through with him Mycroft won't be able to visit anyone." Sherlock retorted, brushing off the real meaning of John's words.

They fell silent for a moment. It was getting colder in the cellar. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, letting his head rest against the wall that was supporting him. He was trying to keep his mind working but it was getting harder by the minute. He found himself starting to ramble, pulling anything out of the air to think of just to keep his mind going and John breathing.

"I would let you show me stuff about the moon," Sherlock murmured, feeling John's head shift, looking at him.

"Like what?"

Inhale. Exhale.

"I don't know… like angels being there and all those other highly detailed things."

Sherlock could see John smiling in the faint light. "I don't think there are angels on the moon, Sherlock."

"That proves how much I know about the moon then," Sherlock replied, knowing he was starting to not make the slightest bit of sense, his mind going blank. Lights were starting to go out in his mind palace.

"You're the moon expert. When we get out of here we can set up the telescope on that hill I was talking about and go angel spotting."

"Alright, Sherlock, the first person who sees an angel gets first choice on the telly for a week."

Nodding, Sherlock asked. "Even crap telly?

"Especially crap telly," was the faint reply.

"Alright. Now do shut up and breathe, John."

A faint nod was the only reply he could get from his friend. The only energy they both had now was focusing on breathing.

Inhale. Exhale.

It seemed like they sat there all night, even though it was only a few hours. Holding onto each other, trying to suppress the other's injuries. Not letting go of each other's wounds and not letting go of each other's eyes. John struggling to breathe and Sherlock struggling to stay awake.

Sherlock's senses were slowly slipping. How he hated that feeling of losing control. He focused mainly on to not letting the dam of his emotions burst completely and drown him in their depths, not wanting the last line of strength that John had to be swept away, taking Sherlock with it.

He also thought about the row he was going to get into with Mycroft about how long it was taking him to get here.

The Night passed slowly. John stopped breathing twice, and Sherlock had to bring him back, ordering him to not give up, that he couldn't go. That Mary needed him, that  _Sherlock_  needed him and he couldn't just leave him – not after everything they had gone through in the months before. Not after it had taken them so long to be able to find each other again, to start living again.

Sherlock reminded John to think of his dream for the future he had always wanted, a little house somewhere with a wife and kids. "I'll bet you'll even have one of those little terrier dogs that loves kids but attacks me when I come to visit." Sherlock half laughed half sobbed.

Inhale. Exhale.

Holding on to him until John started to breathe again.

And when Sherlock's eyes would close, the fighting light in them turned into defeated embers, that let the shadows creep closer to take him, John would poke him in one of his injured spots and whisper "Logic, Sherlock, logic." the pain waking Sherlock, reminding him of his promises, reminding him to breath, turning his eyes back to John who clung to him, unwilling to let Sherlock leave him.

Inhale. Exhale.

Holding on to him until Sherlock started to breathe again.

* * *

They finally came. Lestrade and Mycroft. They found them like that in the early morning. John and Sherlock holding onto each other and looking like they would never let each other go.

It finally took a very concerned and almost frantic Mycroft kneeling down in front of him and softly talking to Sherlock for a few minutes for him to finally let Lestrade take John from his arms whilst Sherlock, feeling Mycroft's arms around him finally let himself slip into the darkness that he had so long tried to stay away from.

As soon as John was pulled away from Sherlock they both stopped breathing again. Iit was as if their lifeline had been severed, and Lestrade started to resuscitate John, kneeling beside him and doing chest compressions, counting and desperately wishing that the ambulance would get here soon. John did not look good.

He looked up to see Mycroft on his knees beside Sherlock, that notorious black umbrella lying beside him in the dirt, talking to his brother and trying to wake him, desperation edging the older Holmes' voice as he began to clumsily copy Lestrade's movements that he was performing on John.

The DI could see that Mycroft Holmes hadn't the slightest idea how to give CPR to a person – it figured, seeing as the man never got his hands dirty – but the  _flustered_ and  _distraught_  look on Mycroft's face as the older man looked down on his younger brother showed Lestrade how helpless the man felt.

Mycroft Holmes – one of the most important men in Britain – could prevent wars around the nation but did not know the simplest bit of information on how to keep his brother's heart beating.

Mycroft looked desperately over at Lestrade, his face trying to keep its usual coolness but the DI could see lines of it cracking, the supposedly extinct emotion starting to show in the man's eyes.

"I don't know  _how_ ," the elder Holmes whispered, with a mixture a frustration and worry as he placed his hand on his brother's chest. His voice wavered just slightly.

As calmly as he could, Lestrade began to instruct Mycroft from across the room and Mycroft, following Lestrade's example on John, began to quickly give chest compressions to his younger brother.

He was talking to him as he did so, trying to think of every threat in the book to tell Sherlock, as if they would keep him from dying. The Ice Man was slowly starting to melt as the fear and panic started to creep up inside him as the seconds ticked by and his brother's eyes stayed closed.

He realized that there was a great possibility that Sherlock would not be able to fake his way out of this death.  _This time_  he would not find Sherlock sitting on his settee a few hours later, his eyes haunted, but very much alive, as had been the last time Mycroft had thought death had come for his brother.

They kept on giving life to John and Sherlock, trying to keep their hearts beating, trying not to fail the people that they cared for and had invested so much in. They would give anything for those dying boys to open their eyes again.

They knew they were Sherlock and John's only chance and hope of surviving now, that they could no longer help each other and that they  _desperately_  needed someone else to intercede and help them.

"Come on, Sherlock," Mycroft whispered to his deathly pale and still brother who lay in front of him as he pressed down on his chest. "Not again, you can't make me go through this again!" He hesitated "I know I have never told you before, but I do  _need_  you, and I  _do care_  and I'm  _sorry_  I never told you before.

"I should have; as your brother, I  _should have._ If you won't live for me, do it for John. I'm so sorry I wasn't able to come sooner, brother mine, but don't stop breathing now just to spite me."

In ...and out, in...and out.

Sherlock seemed so fragile and cold underneath his hands, so still; he was covered in blood.  _Why is it so red?_  Mycroft could see the tear tracks on his brother's blood and dirt stained face, making tears of Mycroft's  _own_  burn his eyes.

His mind flashed back to an image of a little boy with black curls, his eyes so clear and bright, the feathers in his old battered pirate hat swishing in the wind as he raced around, swinging a wooden sword that Mycroft had made for him. The  _only_  burden and care in the little boy's  _mind_  was growing up to be a pirate.

When Mycroft looked down at the figure before him he saw that little boy again, but the happiness and carefree light was gone now, replaced by the shadow of death and sadness, those clear and bright eyes would not open, blood was spattered in those black curls and tears stained his cheeks. Only the sound of silence surrounded him, no excited voice begged Mycroft to play with him.

Even the strongest of ice cracks under the strain of something it cannot bear.

"Please Sherly, please don't make me have to make  _that call_  to Mummy.. " The long dormant emotion deep within Mycroft curled around the edges of his voice. "Don't let me help people all over the world and not be able to save my own brother."

He received no reply. Mycroft didn't even notice his fallen tears as they mixed with the ones on his brother's cheek.

In... and out, in... and out.

Across the room Lestrade was working on John, he could see the smaller man had lost a lot of blood. Lestrade continued with his compressions, ignoring the stain of red that was beginning to cover his hands.

"Come on, John," he whispered. "This isn't your time, not now, not here. This is the time for living, not  _dying_. All that business with death is  _behind_  you and Sherlock now; you no longer have to carry it. The past isn't your ghost anymore so you have make it stop haunting you. We  _both_  have seen enough death, please John, don't... don't make me bury two of the  _best_  men I have ever known.…"

The tears in his throat stopped his voice and he glanced at John's still face.

The Soldier that had committed his life to save and protect others from the victory and pain of death was too injured and weary to keep fighting, unable to save and help himself in this battle, his  _last_  battle.

The Doctor that had taken a vow to help heal the wounded and sick had become too weak and wounded to treat himself. The Doctor with no  _cure._

John Watson who had spent his  _whole_  life helping and saving others had nothing left with which to save himself.

And he was  _silent_.

Tears blurred the DI's vision.

In... and out, in...and out.

He glanced up to look at Sherlock who was lying a few feet away and glanced at Mycroft.  _We aren't going to be able to save them are we?_ The horrible thought shot through Lestrade, making more tears sting his eyes. He shook his head and angrily wiped his eyes on his coat sleeve and continued to work on John.

He glanced at Mycroft, catching sight of the dawning defeat and desperation on the elder Holmes' face as he worked on Sherlock's too-still form.

As if reading Lestrade's thoughts, Mycroft, between compression's on Sherlock, quietly said, "We have to. They have gone through too much already. We…we can't lose them again." Their eyes met for a second, nodding with determination and  _silent agreement_  with each other as they turned back to the wreck of the day that was the dying men in front of them and continued on with their compressions and silent pleading.

In... and out, in...and out.

They didn't even hear the sirens of the arriving ambulances, didn't know help had arrived until they they found themselves being dragged away from the still bodies that they had tried so hard to bring back to life.

 


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Alright, here is the long awaited and hoped for Epilogue.
> 
> I hope it's worth all your tears and fears and it fills your expectations.
> 
> Thank you to all my readers for your support.
> 
> This is just for you.
> 
> Not really, I had always planned to do this =)

_Six weeks later..._

The stars were brilliant tonight. They seemed to dance merrily in the sky, scattering around the brightly silver tinted moon that perched gracefully against the background of black sky. Its soft light touching everything and seemed to smile down on the grassy hill and its occupants there. The soft warm breeze collected their laughter, spreading the newly discovered sense of life it carried.

They had set up John's telescope on the highest point of the hill and spread the old blue blanket Mrs. Hudson had given them out on the soft green grass.

They lay on their backs beside each other on the blanket and looked at the stars. John pointing out constellations for Sherlock, explaining their names and meanings. Sherlock's eyes tracing the stars John found for him, his attention fixed on his friend's words, his eyes not missing the happiness in his friend's eyes,  _It's back_  Sherlock thought as he saw the mask of sorrow and pain that John had worn for so long was gone and the John that Sherlock knew so well, his John, the conductor of light, was back.

It was over. Everything they had gone through during those terrible months with Moriarty, and the case that nearly ended their lives was behind them now and they felt like they could finally live again. Whatever happened in that cellar as they clung to each other, one being unwilling for the other to die, had helped them discover the missing piece, the very reason of their bond and what made them the detective and his blogger.

They were whole again. Their burdens, like a basket full a lemons that tasted all the same, were gone. Letting them feel the sun as if for the very first time, letting it remove the coldness from their bones, the coldness that the shadows of grief and regret had left there.

And Sherlock realized in that moment there wasn't any other place he would rather be than looking at the stars with John, his best friend, the one who made the world more bearable. He turned his head and looked at his friend "Thank you, John." he whispered.

John turned to him; those ever-present blue eyes searching his face "For what?" Sherlock turned his gaze back to the stars and replied softly, "For being my friend, for always being there beside me despite everything I have done to you… I don't deserve it."

There was a slight pause between them, the only sound that could be heard was the soft breeze sweeping the grass.

Then Sherlock heard him.

"I'm honored to be your friend, Sherlock, and I wouldn't trade it for anything we have been through. Because if none of it ever had happened, I'd never would have the privilege of being here now, looking at the stars with you. You once told me, you only had one friend.. I'm sorry I never told you before, that I'm glad you picked me to be that one.." came John's sincere reply.

Sherlock looked over at his friend, and John's kind, blue eyes met his worried, dark grey ones, a smile slowly coming across his face as his friend's words reached his heart and the moon touched his eyes, scattering the worries residing there "Thank you John, I have wandered so far and searched so hard for a way to come back home and hear those words...I'm... I'm tired, John. When I came back I thought it was too good to really be true and then, as you lay dying in that cellar, I knew it was.

"I had to admit to myself that the future I had dreamed of returning to was just a mirage. The only friend that I had, the one I left broken in spirit and mind, I had returned to only break him further to the point of no return and I had no magic trick to offer him. Only a pocketful of useless apologies and tears of regret..." His voice trailed off, turning his head away from John, he pretended to focused on a far off star.

John heard his friend softly sigh and he reached over and laid his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Waiting until Sherlock turned back to face him, finding those tired grey eyes. His voice steady, softly breaking the silence that had fallen on them after Sherlock's words had drifted from him.

"We are alright Sherlock. Not lost, not swallowed in the sea." John whispered to him, "We found our way back and we don't have to be afraid to live again."

Those blue eyes that had been a lighthouse for Sherlock so many times were unwavering, guiding Sherlock from the murky depths of his mind that threatened to drown him. Sherlock fixed his eyes on the beacon of hope and light, and took the plunge.

Do you promise, John? came the whispered question.

_John, his anchor that refused to let him sink._

"I promise" was John's soft, steady answer.

They lay quietly beside each other for a few moments, letting the silence and the warm breeze sweep over them.

"You know? I haven't seen any angels out wandering on the moon yet." John mused, smiling and looking at his friend.

Sherlock, shaking his head, his grey eyes sparkling in the moonlight replied with a soft laugh, "I guess not. I suppose they are indignant about having crap telly being bet on them."

"Sensitive creatures, aren't they." John quipped and they both burst out laughing, their laughter ringing through the breeze.

 _How good it is to laugh again, to hear him laugh again_  Sherlock thought as a particularly interesting looking insect caught his attention as it strolled along in the grass beside him and he crawled after it, his long black coat trailing behind him, his torch in one hand and a specimen jar that he had smuggled in his coat in the other.

John rolled his eyes and pulled his mobile out of his pocket as he called over to Sherlock in his supine position in the grass. "Mycroft texted me and asked if we wanted to join him for dinner at Angelo's tomorrow evening. I think he wants to give you your scarf that he's been keeping for you, Lestrade is coming too."

Sherlock popped up out of the grass, holding his specimen jar against the moon light. Scowling at it then, and then suddenly seeming pleased with his prey, he nodded in John's direction.

"Mycroft asking us to dinner? There is a first for everything. I suppose you can tell him we will come."

John nodded and sent off a reply on his mobile just as Sherlock returned to his spot on the blanket beside John, stretching his long legs out in front of him and laying the specimen jar beside him on the blanket.

John turned to Sherlock, "I'm glad you said yes to him. I know it will mean a lot for Mycroft as he really does care. They just want to see us, you know. Mycroft and Lestrade, they went through a lot the past few weeks and we…we owe them." he added after pausing a second.

Sherlock nodded; the moonlight glinting off his black curls, "I know." He replied softly. "That's why I said we would go, we will do it for them. Mycroft has held onto my scarf since the night we went to the hospital and I know when he gives it to me it will be like confirming that everything is as it should be and we can resume our normal routine."

Sherlock remembered those long, cold and shadowed days in the hospital, where the only source of warmth and light was Mycroft's hand that held his.

The ever steady presence of his brother fighting off the darkness that threatened to bury Sherlock, giving him a light to fight towards.

When Sherlock couldn't feel anything in the bitterest of darkness, he felt Mycroft's tears as he held Sherlock's face in his hands.

Mycroft's whispered pleas as they softly filled the quiet room in tune with the rhythm of the heart monitors and the life support system echoed in Sherlock's mind. Would forever echo there.

"Please stay."

"Please keep trying."

"You and Mummy are all I've got left."

"I wish you'd come back... come back to me."

"I'm nothing without my brother."

Sherlock remembered how under Mycroft's orders Sherlock and John were moved into the same room, sometimes the only thing keeping them alive had been the sound of the other breathing.

Some nights, once he was able to, Sherlock would slip out of his bed and keep vigil beside John, watching over him. Whispering, in and out..in and out, under his breath as he held John's still, cold hand.

Many times Mycroft found Sherlock sleeping beside John's bed in that sad looking hospital chair. Sherlock's head resting on the edge of the bed, and John's hand resting on Sherlock's curls.

John's voice pulled Sherlock out of his memories.

"I'm not sure you would call whatever we do normal, Sherlock." John laughed shaking his head, thinking about the body parts that took up residence in the refrigerator and the skull in its place of honor on the mantel.

"But I'm very much so looking forward to it" John whispered.

"So am I, John," Replied Sherlock, yearning and desire evident in his voice. "So am I."

John looked over at him. "So you really think I'll even have one of those little terrier dogs?"

Sherlock waved a hand in the air. "John, I bet you'll even have two."

John laughed softly. "And you would really come to visit?"

Sherlock looked over at him. "Always."

"That sounds good to me." Was John's quiet reply.

Sherlock was silent for a moment and pulled out his mobile and sent of a quick text and and nodded, smiling to himself as he read the replying text.

**Thank you My. SH**

**You're welcome Sherly... And try not to be too late for dinner. MH**

_No Mycroft, this time just for you, I'll be shockingly on time_  Sherlock thought as he slipped the mobile back into his coat pocket.

Sherlock found himself actually looking forward to spending time with John, Mycroft and Lestrade and eating dinner at the cheerful Angelo's. He could almost hear John's clear laughter and could see in his minds eye Mycroft sighing and rolling his eyes at him, and Lestrade shaking his head and grinning over something someone would say.

With that, Sherlock turned his mind to the promise of the new day, and let the doors of the past close behind him.

They lay there on the hill until the sun started to rise.

Looking at the stars, naming and making up their own constellations.

Laughing at the stupid names they came up with.

Catching up on all the times they had missed.

Talking about different things, letting the other see their hopes and dreams.

Sharing what was on their hearts and minds, casting their fears and worries into the sea of stars.

Looking forward to finding the second chances of better days.

Thinking about their new future with their second chances and what it would bring them.

Knowing whatever came, they would not have to do it alone, for the they would always have the other by their side.

They lay there till the last star sparkled its final salute to to them and retired. Surrendering the night to the new day.

With the sun sun shining down on them they left the hill, side by side with pockets full of stars and hearts full of hopeful dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: There you go dear readers.
> 
> Thank you very much for all your Reviews, Favorites and Follows
> 
> I'm sad it's over, I really wish I knew how to draw Fan Art or knew someone who could because I would love to see some for this chapter. Wouldn't you?
> 
> I can just see it now, and I hope I painted a picture clear enough of our dear boys that you could too.
> 
> Reviewers get a jar full of stars.
> 
> I'll see you in my next story.


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